


I Know You

by Catchclaw



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dreams, M/M, Pre-Slash Destiel, Schmoop, Wincest - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-08
Updated: 2012-11-08
Packaged: 2017-11-18 05:06:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Castiel nods off on the job and dreams of Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Know You

He is dreaming. I am watching.

He takes deep, easy breaths, one after the other after other.

This is how I know he is dreaming: his face changes. Softens, at first, then tightens as the dreams catch his head in their fingers, work their way into him.

I spend a lot of time watching him.

It is my duty.

My purpose.

And so I have time to study these things. To study him.

I have time to make him singular, he who is the most important element of the universe, in a rumpled t-shirt, broken black boots, and a crooked smile that can always catch me off guard.

He is dreaming.

Or am I?

I blink and now it's snowing, where I am. Cold and wet and outside and Dean has disappeared. I cannot see him anywhere. I turn in a slow circle, afraid but not, and then he's there, glaring and shivering and naked.

"I am not glaring!" he barks. "I'm pissed!"

I blink.

"What are you doing here?"

"I have no idea! Where the hell am I?"

"I do not know."

"What do you mean you don't know?! Is your angel GPS on the fritz again?" he growls through chattering teeth.

I cock my head. "Dean," I say. "This is your dream. Where do you think we are?"

He squints at me in disbelief.

"My dream? Really?" he snaps. "Really. Then why I am naked?"

I keep my eyes on his face. "You like being unclothed."

"Outside? In the middle of winter?"

Now he's wearing a long black coat. And jeans and boots.

"Thank you!" he huffs. "Jesus, Cas. You always objectify me like this in your sleep?"

Hmm. Maybe this is my dream. I do not recall his vocabulary being so--expansive.

"I can hear you, ya know!" he says, crossing his arms. "Part of your inner monologue here."

Ah.

The snow is up to his knees, though it doesn't seem to be accumulating at the same rate around me. He stamps his feet, breaks himself loose.

"So what is it? You bring me up here just to watch me freeze my balls off?"

"What?"

He sighs, impatient with me. "Never mind. Can't we talk someplace warmer?"

Then we're on a bench, and where we are, it's spring.

He's wearing jeans and a blue shirt that I like to see him in.

He smiles. "I thought you liked the brown one."

"That one, too," I say, and he's in it.

We stare out at the lake for awhile, watching the ducks scuttle across the water, their offspring in a wavering line behind.

"This what you usually dream about?" he says.

"What would you have expected?" I ask.

He thinks about this.

"Um, smiting, maybe. Some kind of battle."

"I do not enjoy combat, Dean."

"I didn't say you did. But that's what dreams do, sometimes: make you run through shit, work through some scenarios, so that when the time comes, you're ready."

"Hmm. Is that what your dreams are like?"

"Eh. Sometimes," he says, leaning over and avoiding my eyes.

"And the other times?" I ask.

"Mmm. You know."

"Obviously, I do not, or I would not be--"

"Cas!" he says. "This is your dream. You don't have to be asking me stuff. You could be telling me what I think, what I dream about."

"Yes," I say, squinting into the sun. "I know."

He sits back, drapes his arm over the back of the bench. Brushes my shoulder.

"Lemme put it another way," he drawls. "What do you think I dream about?"

There's a rumble beneath my feet, but it's my eyes that shake.

When I look up, we're in some dark, hot room, the sun pulsing through the curtains. It's dirty. It's cramped. The air is close and thick.

"Oh," he says from under Sam. "Ok."

Sam's back arches and he moans, shoves his face down into Dean's and Dean disappears, swallowed up, his arms stretching around Sam's back.

I watch his fingernails dig into Sam's flesh. But it's mine that feels the sting.

Sam says something I can't hear, another rumble like before, and they both laugh, breathless and fast. Dean pushes him off, slides over Sam's body and then down, fingers skimming Sam's ribs, this beautiful smile on his face.

Sam shudders. He ripples like a wave and Dean falls under it, his head caught in Sam's palm and his mouth open and wet, and then he--

"Wow," he says at my shoulder. "You've put a lot of thought into this. I like how bad you've made Sam's hair look. Nice touch. And the moaning is good, too. Better him than me."

I turn around and now the room is open and airy and white. The sun is soft and the sheets are clean.

He starts cackling.

"Really?" he says. "Really, Cas?"

"What?"

"This!" he says, spinning, letting the air catch his robe. "Really? White terrycloth? Hell, white everything?"

I shake my head.

"And wait, why do I smell like Old Spice?" he says, sniffing suspiciously. "What in the hell makes you think I dream of stuff like this?"

"You," I say, shrugging out of my coat, reaching for my tie. "I know you."

"Pfffft," he says, moving towards the bed. He pokes at the pillows. "Are these fuckers full of feathers?"

"I don't know," I say, kicking my trousers away. "Do you like feather pillows?"

"I have no idea," he says, curious now, thumping them in earnest.

I move up behind him, wrap my arms around his waist and he sighs, shifts back into me.

"Cas," he says, drowsy and low. "Cas. So you think I dream about you?"

"Eventually," I say, pressing my face between his shoulders, tucking my nose into the terrycloth. "When those other dreams get strung out and worn. I'm in there, somewhere."

"Hmm," I feel him say.

He turns me, pushes me into the white and covers me with his body.

"You think I dream of kissing you?" he murmurs.

I catch his face in my hand.

"This is my dream," I tell him. "So kiss me."

He laughs, more breath than sound.

"Castiel," he whispers, his mouth on mine at last.

I am dreaming. He is not watching.

No one is.

For now, he is mine.

And when the time comes, in the real world, I'll be ready. For him.

**Author's Note:**

> For outofmymindbebackshortly, who prompted: "Sam and Dean are having sex in their motel room, not realizing that they are being watched by Castiel.”


End file.
